


Dark Lady

by Brambleshadow_of_WindClan



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Pete's World
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 20:12:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brambleshadow_of_WindClan/pseuds/Brambleshadow_of_WindClan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[AU. Rose/Ten/Martha. Based on “Dark Lady” by Cher.] “Dark lady laughed and danced and lit the candles one by one. Danced to her gypsy music till her brew was done. Dark lady played black magic till the clock struck on the twelve. She told me more about me than I knew myself. . . .”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dark Lady

**Dark Lady**

Rose Tyler looked around her with wide eyes, enjoying the sight of New Orleans. As was the norm in Pete’s World, zeppelins flew in the sky. There were more here in America than in London, if that were possible, but she wasn’t paying much attention to the zeppelins. No, she was busy taking in the smells and sounds of the historic Louisiana city. The meta-crisis Doctor was walking with her, his hand holding hers and his gob going at a hundred miles an hour as he pointed out some building or other. Rose tried to pay attention, she really did, but after a few minutes she just let the words flow in one ear and out the other and just concentrated on the sound of his voice. It was rougher than her original Doctor’s and occasionally some of Donna’s mannerisms would peek through, but in mind and body he was identical to the Time Lord she’d fallen in love with—save for the fact he had one heart and a normal human lifespan. He’d explained to her that his physiology was mostly Gallifreyan with a few human quirks. She took that to mean he still had his Time Lord abilities, even though they were probably weakened due to him being part human.

            A black limousine pulled up beside them, halting the Doctor’s monologue. Rose and the Doctor watched curiously as the back passenger door opened to reveal . . .

            “Martha?” the two said in unison, surprised.

            She smiled and nodded slightly, her hand moving over the back of the cat in her lap. Rose, with a jolt of unease, noticed the cat’s pelt was black. Yellow eyes stared back at her, and she swallowed. What was she thinking? She didn’t believe in witchcraft anyway.

            “Rose.” Martha patted the space next to her. “Come on. I want to talk to you.”

            Rose hesitated, glanced back at the Doctor. Worry flashed in his eyes before he gave her a slight nod. He murmured, “I’ll see you later.”

            Not altogether reassured, Rose slid into the backseat. She kept having to remind herself that this wasn’t the Martha Jones she’d met briefly back in her home universe. This was an alternate Martha, though why she would live in New Orleans making a living as a infamous fortune teller known on the streets as the Dark Lady was anybody’s guess.

            At least she still had the English accent.

            The windows were so tinted that Rose couldn’t see the Doctor through them. She also noticed that the backseat was covered in scratches—maybe from the cat, maybe from something else.

            “Home, James,” Martha told the driver, and he hit the gas.

            It never occurred to Rose that Martha knew her name when she hadn’t told her. But then, why would it? She was the daughter of Pete Tyler—head of Vitex Industries—and leader of a Torchwood team. It was only natural that she be recognized.

            Right?

            They pulled up outside a large Victorian. Rose followed the Dark Lady into a darkened room off the foyer. The room looked like something out of a movie: heavy dark purple drapes; candles, unlit; even a covered table with a crystal ball.

            Martha held out her hand. Rose dug in her pocket, found a five dollar bill, and handed it to her.

            “I’ll be with you soon,” Martha said, gesturing for Rose to take a seat.

            Rose did, watching the other woman as she practically danced around the room. A soft laugh spilled from her throat as she turned on some soft instrumental music, lit the candles one by one.

            _Well, this isn’t strange at all,_ Rose thought wryly.

            The Dark Lady—funny, she wasn’t really thinking of her as Martha anymore—turned back to Rose with a deck of cards in her hand. She sat across the table from her customer, shuffled the cards, and laid five of them out. The backs were identical, and Rose couldn’t tell if this was a Tarot deck or not. (Tarot was normally used for predictions; she had no idea how a regular deck would work. Even in Tarot there were two different decks.)

            Two of the cards were turned up—a queen and a three. Dark Lady mumbled some words that were so strange to Rose—the blonde didn’t know if she was speaking a foreign language or if it was just gibberish. If the words _were_ in a foreign language, it wasn’t one Rose recognized.

            Rose wasn’t sure if she believed in fortune-telling or not, but it was unnerving how much Martha knew about her. She told Rose more about her than she knew herself—she’d even mentioned Bad Wolf.

            Then the Dark Lady turned up a two-eyed jack. Rose’s eyes saw crimson, but the card still stayed black.

            Martha studied the cards intently. Finally she said, “The man you love is secretly true to someone else who is very close to you.”

            Rose’s eyes flashed. “No.” She shook her head. “He wouldn’t do that. Not to me—not after everything we’ve been through.” Her voice turned acidic: “But then, you know all about that, don’t you?”

            The other woman shrugged, ignored the barbed comment. “My advice is that you leave this place, never come back, and forget you ever saw my face.”

            Rose glared at her for a long moment. As she stood up, she caught a whiff of the Dark Lady’s perfume. She couldn’t say she liked it, but something about it seemed vaguely familiar.

            Shaken but trying to hide it, Rose whirled out of the house. She hailed a taxi to take her back to the house she was staying at—she’d arranged it with Torchwood—and texted the Doctor to let her know where she was heading.

            When she arrived it was dark and no one was home. Rose collapsed on her bed, but she was too wound up to sleep. Her mind kept replaying the scene in that room, kept going over everything that had been said. Then there was the perfume. _Where_ had she smelled it before?

            She turned over in bed, buried her face in the pillow. Something clicked inside her head and she shot up.

            _No. He wouldn’t. He_ wouldn’t . . .

            Yet her nose—and Dark Lady—were telling her otherwise.

            Her initial shock and disbelief slowly turned to anger. Now that she thought about it, the Doctor _had_ been uncomfortable when Martha first pulled up and invited Rose to come with her. And had that worry in his eyes been for Rose, or was he afraid that she’d find out his secret?

            Without thinking, she grabbed her Torchwood-issue weapon and stormed out the house. Fifteen minutes later she was back at Martha’s house.

            Rose searched the house, came upon a closed door on the upper floor. Judging from the sounds, this was the bedroom.

            A sick feeling in her stomach, heart in her throat, Rose opened the door.

            Rage burned through her, hot as flame then cold as ice. They were laughing, kissing, and _her_ hands were on _Rose’s Doctor. That_ was _not_ acceptable.

            The Doctor noticed Rose first. He paled, scurried as far away from Martha as he could. Actually, he fell off the bed and took the sheets with him.

            Martha wasn’t as startled. In fact, Rose was sure she saw a slight smile flickering on the other woman’s lips.

            The next thing Rose knew, she was dead on the floor. Dark Lady would never turn a card up anymore.

            As for the Doctor . . .

            She turned on him, hackles raised and eyes flashing. He shrank back, fear and same in his eyes. “Rose, I—”

            She cut him off. “I thought I knew you.”

            Unable to kill him, she turned and walked away. Maybe she could forgive him, but not now. Not today.

            He’d have to earn it. At least now she didn’t have to worry about any version of Martha Jones.

 

            _Dark lady laughed and danced  
_ _And lit the candles one by one  
_ _Danced to her gypsy music  
_ _Till her brew was done_

_Dark lady played black magic  
_ _Till the clock struck on the twelve . . ._

 

             


End file.
